Well, to you I say in no uncertain hyperbolic terms, what is life without a turkey craft?!? And a LIZ LEMON turkey craft at that!

This year, my turkey is singing the theme song for Cheezy Blasters into her wine glass while working on her Night Cheese and shuffling along on a treadmill at 2 mph. Meat Cat and some teamster subs were good enough to make cameos! Thanks Meat Cat! (If you don’t know what any of this is referring to, then I don’t know if we can be friends anymore. Oh, just go watch 30 Rock!)

You're my hero, Liz Lemon!

Pinch crafting for Fancy this year was the tag-team crafting duo of my mom and grandma. From where I sit, both created equally disturbing and cracked out turkeys…

My mother: for her sudden can’t-miss-it interest in football and references to “The Game” and some Packer football player she called “Trusty.”

Football is stupid. The end.

And my grandmother: for her…um…well…just take a look and tell me if that shit isn’t cracked out. Is this what happens to us when we get old?

I have no words. No words.

I hope you enjoy our “craftiness” and that you had a fantastic Turkey Day!

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Confused? Yeah, me too.

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Why? Well.

I am irked because TOO MANY HATERS seem apt to treat dogs like sub-humans. Yes, I said “sub-humans.” I say this, despite dogs obviously not being human, because animals should in general be treated with respect (and this is said by someone who was recently bitten by a horse, mind you). They ought to be treated with love. Or, at the very least, with common decency. In particular, I am absolutely sick of people being mean to dogs.

I’m sick of being yelled at by complete strangers because I’m walking Wendy down the sidewalk (mind you, on leash, perfectly well-behaved, and oblivious to batshit crazy lady’s presence HALF WAY DOWN THE BLOCK).

I’m sick of being scowled at in the building where I live because I have to use the “people” elevators and not the designated freight elevator because said elevator dates back to when the building was built (1927!!!!) and is frequently out of service- or stuck with someone inside.

I’m sick of drivers flipping the fuck out and screeching forward when you don’t walk your dog fast enough across the street.

I’m sick of seeing a dog treated inferior and literally dragged down a sidewalk, being yelled at and choked along the way.

And I’m sick of people being downright insensitive as evidenced by this lady’s blatant disrespect when, quite frankly, she of all people should have known better.

I don’t care if this makes me sound like some crazy dog lady. I don’t. My dog and so many other dogs exist only to be loved and cared for. They’re loyal and loving. And to many of us, they are our children and may be the only ones we ever have. Fuck you if you think that’s a dumb statement. You’re a toolbag for being mean to dogs and thinking less of those who love them dearly.

I told you. I’m irked. Toolbags will do that to a person.

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A day from which I am still recovering and seeing a chiropractor. A day when I intended to *happily* squire my visiting brother and his girlfriend around Chicago and later see Fitz and the Tantrums at Schubas for their Lolla aftershow.

Instead, I slipped in the apartment Saturday morning on the residual oil slick from the dude’s otherwise innocuous pre-Lolla sunscreen spraying in the bathroom. I fell backward at what I am guessing was a 60 degree angle into the bookcase, then promptly onto the floor. As I lay there, I thought I’d sprained my left ankle from the slip, elevating it on the edge of the couch’s arm. Luckily, I did not. Unluckily, however, I managed to seriously FUCK UP my neck and left shoulder, which became apparent the minute I tried to raise my head off the hardwood floor.

In the meantime, Wendy scurried over to sniff me and take up her perch on the couch from which she could fully take in Mommy’s silliness. Really need to get cracking on teaching her how to go get help/ dial 911 given how klutzy I am in general! In this particular case though- I could have been a damn Triwizard Tournament Champion (that one’s just for you Brandy, as well as the balloon hat reference below!) and still would have taken a nasty fall. I’m just glad I fell out of the tiled bathroom and not back into it and the bathtub, which could have been truly disastrous.

So that was the epic start to the day, followed by my apologetic air hugs to my brother and his lady friend (“Don’t touch me, I’m old and broken!”), and my attempts to self-medicate with two margaritas at the newly opened Margaritaville at Navy Pier during lunch (no balloon hats at this location, I’m sad to say). I managed to get a decent buzz going, but nothing that drowned out the neck spasms completely. Perhaps some retail therapy?

Despite the pain, I soldiered on via cab to Michigan Avenue where I took them to the North Face Store (hello, that place is READY for winter and almost sold me on these badass $40 (strangely $60 online) gloves except what the hell it’s August and humid as a skank whore outside- because skank whores are apparently humid), to the new AllSaints (am in love with this place and promptly picked up this waistcoat which will look amazing with a black pencil skirt or with these gummy black skinny jeans), to the new Chick-fil-A for lemonades (sadly no room for my favoritest sandwich ever despite its status as Jesus chicken- no joke, I even referenced my love for the Fil-A in my About page), to the top of the Hancock, and finally to Ghirardelli for ice cream (strawberry cheesecake FTW).

We took our ice cream cones across the street and sat on the edge of the fountain by the Water Tower, people watching and chatting. It was one of those beautiful, albeit tourist-laden, moments in the city. We finished our ice creams and walked over to the line of horse carriages, where my brother expressed his fear of horses in general. I promptly proceeded to scoff at him and intended to demonstrate how perfectly tame they are. And then it happened.

I got bit by a horse.

There on the banal sidewalk of the Magnificent Mile, surrounded by shoppers and street performers and children (one of whom the same rabid horse would later try to bite), on an otherwise uneventful and sunny Saturday afternoon, in the middle of the fucking city; I reached my hand out to pet the horse’s head and he curled his mouth around and chomped down on my right forearm, leaving behind horse slobber and bits of grass and teeth marks. What. The. Fuck.

Like I said, last Saturday was A DAY.

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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Exhibit A: This morning, I’m walking Wendy and we’re having a lovely time in the sunshine and she’s being super cute and sassy and prancey. And then, out of nowhere, there’s a lady standing in the middle of the sidewalk about 50 feet away from us. Just standing there, staring at us. And, apparently, yelling at us. Except, I can’t hear what she’s saying at all. I just see her lips moving and her arms gesticulating.

At first, I thought maybe she was yelling at me to clean up after my dog. Wendy had just conducted her business and I had just disposed of said business, but thought that maybe the OLD COOT hadn’t seen me do so. But then I caught one word- “bus”- and thought maybe she was yelling at me to hold the bus or some junk. Which seriously? I had a dog and wasn’t anywhere near the bus, so how the fuck was I supposed to accomplish that? Whore.

Anyway, so the whole time I’m wondering what the hell this old bat’s problem is, Wendy and I are also walking slowly down the sidewalk and closing the gap between us. Just as we get within hearing distance, I hear her yell, “I TOLD YOU TO KEEP HER ON THE SIDE!” or something along those lines. As she yelled this, she scurried off the sidewalk toward the street and began to swear and gesticulate with her purse.

So there I am, standing with my dog in disbelief, and shouting at her back: “WHAT?! I DIDN’T HEAR WHAT YOU SAID- WHAT’S WRONG?” The whole time, all these people are hurrying past on their way to the bus stop and I feel like an idiot. Except all I was doing was walking my dog down the sidewalk. She wasn’t barking or pulling at the leash or anything. Just walking. You know, really vicious stuff like that.

Before I turned and continue on home, Crab Ass made sure to return the volley: “OH JUST FORGET ABOUT! YOU DON’T LISTEN! STUPID [indecipherable haterade]…”

What. The. Hell.

Exhibit B: Pharmacy shenanigans! There I am (this past January), waiting at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for vicodin because lo and behold I have a jerkstore kidney stone (just wait, that post is still in the works) and there are three INCOMPETENT OLD DRIED UP TOOLBAGS in line in front of me. I’m practically sweating my face off, hanging onto the HIPPA “privacy” rope in pain, and barreled over. I literally was about to throw up.

Meanwhile, Old Biddy #1 has some old fucker prescription card and it’s not working. “But it’s supposed to.” But it isn’t at all. “But can’t you just run it again?” But the pharmacist has and can’t do anything for her.

So Grandma continues to stand there, looking at the card in silence, turning it over in her hand like it’s magically going to turn into a god damn coupon or some shit. Finally, as she begins to rifle through her wallet, she realizes that’s her old card and that- like her- it’s completely useless. It took her 10 minutes to figure that out.

Which is when Old Biddy #2 came up to bat. I’ll spare you the details of her toolbaggery and simply say that she was completely put out that the pharmacy didn’t have enough quantity of her prescription to fill it completely and could only give her 10 pills at the moment. She argued with the poor pharmacist about this and demanded that it be delivered to her home that afternoon. When the pharmacist actually agreed to do so on her own time after she gets off from work, the bitch has the audacity to say that’s not good enough and that she expects it by 2 pm. No “thank you” or “you don’t have to do that” or “viva la customer service!” Just, “that’s not good enough.”

No joke, while she’s finally being sent on her way five minutes later, Grandpa Jones starts in on the pharmacist about how he’s there to pick up two prescriptions, not one. But they only have one filled because that’s all that was sent to them from his doctor.

Another five minutes go by.

A cart ambles toward me and I see that the panting, old as fuck skank driving it is maneuvering to place her cart in line in front of me. Which is when I pretty much lose it and stare her down. We’re talking daggers. Unrelenting daggers. Old Biddy #3 takes notice and continues on her way, pushing the cart into line behind me. She takes her cane out of her empty cart and actually asks me to “watch” her cart while she goes into the bathroom. I’m speechless and just stand there giving her my best bitch face.

By the time she comes out, Grandpa Jones has decided he’ll come back later and I’m finally at the counter 20 minutes later. As I’m in the process of paying, Old Biddy #3 comes and stands at the counter beside me. Literally BESIDE ME. And she’s panting again. Also, she smells like feet.

I haven’t even swiped my card yet when she gives the pharmacist her name and tells her she’s picking up four prescriptions. I turn and stare. The pharmacist says she’ll be right with her as soon as she finishes up with me. The asshat  continues to stand at my side while I sign my receipt and the pharmacist explains that I probably shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. Old Bag says, “Oh my.” So much for HIPPA!

Exhibit C: If you’re wondering if maybe it’s just me who has the problem with OLD ASS FUCKERS, let me add that Fancy has recently had an epic encounter of her own. Sick and on her way home from work early, she found herself stuck in the Jewel parking lot when her car died. She was blocking a lane of traffic. Which is when the honking began. And the swearing. She became understandably upset. She doesn’t feel good, her car just died and her husband is out of town, and now she’s being audibly assaulted. She begins to cry.

The cherry on this Toolbag Sundae came in the form of one crusty old fucker with an oxygen tank that felt it his job to actually flip her off. Because clearly she did it on purpose just to inconvenience him. Clearly.

When I went to pick her up, the only thing I could say upon hearing what happened was that he was probably just in a hurry because he was afraid he’d die before he reached his destination. Which, of course, must be HELL.

Taken as a whole, I’m still really pissed about this morning’s toolbag encounter in particular. I don’t know what else to do except to say: *(#Y)*(E$@L:E>”#:R(EU*YE$*#(y)&*^&#jnj@jio{!~”~((u#uinjwnrj}we{|#+_)#*(#ji{*(_#U*(#$&*##*@HB@Nk3u2890(***@#&)Q@&#^&#^@)Q_@(###@/+UIBN!!!II(!(O(ue807&Y#$&&^#()*(_+@!!!!!!

Also, $#$)U#*(#JIKNM@IOU)#*()@_*(@)(!I()!KO&*% TOOLBAGS!

*I apologize for the length of this post, but as you can see, there’s a SHIT TON of Old Fucker Toolbaggery happening in the world these days.

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